


Run Deep, Run Wild

by JDylah_da_Kylah



Series: Phototropic [11]
Category: Starfighter Eclipse
Genre: Backstory, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Homesickness, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Science Fiction, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 14:25:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8165099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDylah_da_Kylah/pseuds/JDylah_da_Kylah
Summary: Commander Hayden has offered Helios one chance to show he's still capable and fit for duty as the Kepler keeps a wary watch over the border between the Alliance and the Colterons. But this involves simulated missions which leave the Fighter with a choice: to save Selene and doom his comrades, or save their lives and lose his Navigator. Except no one's asked Selene just how he feels on the matter.Or: It takes a streak of pride and usually some common sense to hide your fear, but that's not always the card to play.





	

**Author's Note:**

> "Be the ocean where I unravel.  
> Be my only, be the water where I'm wading."
> 
> "You're my river running high.  
> Run deep, run wild."  
> ("I Follow Rivers" by Lykke Li)
> 
> This is just something I've been picking at for a while. Moving has put a stint in my writing productivity, and then "Someone Shining, Bringing Destiny" wormed its way into my head before this was finished (and before I finished unpacking, for that matter). So.
> 
> I'm not really sure how I feel about it?
> 
> Now that Hayden's made it clear to Helios that this is his only chance to redeem himself/prove his worth and soundness as a Fighter (given where the _Kepler_ is), I figured that he'd find a way to dig in and get through the CO's simulations, which is at least a step towards processing what (almost) happened and getting acclimated and desensitized to the reality of all the crap that can go wrong. Obviously the battle with the Colterons and all the baggage which came with it is still fresh, but it's probably not the worst (and certainly not the only) bad thing he's experienced; even if it's deeply affected him in ways that other things have not, there's still a part of him which can tap into that streak of stubborn-gut-tenacity which seems to be the hallmark of most Fighters.
> 
> The same principles apply to Selene, although for him it's not as much about his identity in terms of any construct of the Alliance (i.e. Helios draws a large part of his identity from the Fighter aesthetic, as it were)—rather, his own culture and experiences, all tangled up in his predilection for overthinking things (and usually being right), combine to give him just as stubborn a streak as his Afon's. (Oh! As it's briefly-alluded to in the story, the taiaha is a traditional Māori instrument of war, and seeing someone wield it skillfully really is incredible.)
> 
> Down to other practicalities: I didn't want to gloss over the simulations they ran, nor would I expect that one session is enough (hence Encke's summons for the next day)—nor did I want to dwell on them, because what actually happens isn't as important as the emotional fallout— _but_ —I wanted to at least show that they're capable of more than they suspected when they're really needed, even if in private they're still shaken and trying to put themselves (and each other) back together.
> 
> Not sure how well that came across?
> 
> Also (mostly to cover my keister, lest it seem like I'm preaching): Selene's thoughts on rabbits and men aren't intended to be my inserted criticism of how rabbit population crises are being handled today and/or into the future by the governments of Australia and New Zealand. What I figured is this: As a child—seeing a rabbit caught up in a piece of wire, or a snare—I don't think he'd be able to wrap his head around a rabbit's death that way, as a logical or needed thing. And for whatever he knows now about the delicacy of ecosystems and all that, I think it would still probably stick out in his mind regardless of necessity as a moment of both suffering and injustice.
> 
> I'll let y'all be the judge of everything else, of course. There's _so much more_ I want to say here but won't, because—I don't know—mostly at this point I feel like I'm just rambling. Reviews/comments/critiques/suggestions . . . all the good stuff's welcome and much-appreciated.  <3 I hope you enjoy! (If this is complete and utter suck, my bad!)

"Afon, will you come with me?"

There were a few hours left until the day-shift ended; there was nothing to speak of twilight in the _Kepler_ 's glare but nevertheless it seemed that way, the hours laying thickly on the ship. Selene stood at the desk, just beside his Fighter, who was lolled in the chair and already half-asleep; he'd stripped down to his shorts and looked like he hadn't intended on going anywhere at all. His large hands—fingertips like leaves on swayed branches long enough to grace the floor—flicked and twitched convulsively; his eyes darted rapidly, rapidly beneath the flickering, thin, membranous lids.

_How bad will it be this time?_

But Helios was not asleep—not yet—and if his brain was ready to loose a beast of a dream on him, he seemed not to recognize it as he stirred.

"Whafor?"

"I'm sorry it's so late, Afon. I would have asked earlier, but it's been a long day. Busier than I expected. And . . ."

"Mm. Encke . . ."

"Worked you all hard today. I know." Selene touched a cool hand to Helios' shoulder, radiating body heat; he smelled of that same warmth, of sweat, of regulation soap and something Selene couldn't place. Slowly his hand wandered from the solid shoulder to the chest, palm flat against the scar that had saved his Fighter's life.

"Tch." Slowly Helios opened his eyes, blinking, burying his head for a moment in his Navigator's side against the light. He was mildly impressed, if not unsurprised, to find that Selene was still in uniform. "Fine. I'm up."

Sleepily, a moment later, while Selene began to hand him clothes: "I thought . . ."

"I wouldn't wake you up for _that_." There was a thread of laughter in the words, but it was hollow. "You seem too tired, anyway. Get dressed."

And something in the Navigator's voice snared at Helios' ears, dug into his brain, past the fuzz, the exhaustion, his body's hungering for sleep—the MO had prescribed him sedatives to help keep away the nightmares but tonight, at least, he hoped they wouldn't come.

 _What's so important that it's_ now _, Selene?_

The halls were soft, were welcoming, were peppered here and there with stragglers. When they were in the lift, Selene touched his Fighter's hand.

"I want to show you something, Afon."

Helios, awake by now, glanced quizzically at his Navigator, half-cast into shadows, staring forward—not nervous, really, but making such a concentrated effort not to be tense that it was all the more made obvious. His mind began to trace over the day—there must be a hint buried in there somewhere—but he came up with no more than Encke's hellish drill. He wondered why, for that matter, the head Fighter had so pushed them—

Neither Encke nor Praxis had said much to him today, which was ironic: he wondered how the hell he was supposed to shadow them, exemplars that they were, if they wouldn't toss him two words edgewise.

_Fuck. They won't have a choice tomorrow._

And there, the vice around his throat, the sensation that the floor had fallen from beneath him and that the lift would just swallow him whole or else keep descending, down and down and down.

Two days before, Hayden had laid out his protocol, his test, Helios' final chance; a day later and the MO had prescribed him sedatives to help keep the nightmares at bay (little pills he didn't trust) and to help him sleep . . . Tomorrow, then, the first day of simulations. Back in the capsule. Back to hell.

" _Selene_ —"

"Afon, I know. I know."

He hadn't realized until the lift spat them out that he was clinging to the smaller man, that it hurt to breathe, that he couldn't quite see straight. He hated it, in some ways, that Selene was his anchor when the Navigator suffered no less: _he_ bore the scars and was known likewise to wake with a cry in the middle of the night.

"Wait. Please."

The Navigator paused, pulling them against a wall, as if the wall might shelter them. His hands were steady as he touched the Fighter's cheeks; his lips trembled in the kiss. "What is it, Afon?"

"I . . . know where we are." Helios swallowed with difficulty, rations suddenly alive and brawling in his gut. "I know we're at the hangar."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Shh. Just listen. Then we can leave, if you still want to leave."

A sharp shake of the head—nugatory, nugatory—but "No!" wasn't really what the Fighter meant.

_Help?_

"It's hard for me too, Afon. Tomorrow . . . the simulations Hayden wants us to run . . . they're not just for you, for us, for Praxis, Ethos . . . they're for me. I'm just as scared as you are. Do you see? But—"

An olive hand curled around his head, slipped across his eyes. Helios, trembling, let himself be led—he didn't know—feet forward—one by one—the soft, soft tread of his Navigator guiding him, the hand across his eyes, the hand clasped within his own.

"Reach up, Afon."

His free fingertips met metal, cool and thick, the unmistakable height of a Starfighter's wing.

Selene stepped back, leaving Helios to keep his eyes closed for a moment, trying to ration his breaths into a steady, measured cadence.

"Why are we here?" he finally whispered.

"Open your eyes, e ipo."

Before him, then, the ship—the Starfighter—a bird of prey ready to slide into a starry void, a great, black sky which was perhaps more sea than sky, or neither of the two at all. But what he remembered—the _Edifice_ a smoking wreckage—wasn't what he saw. No, this was a thing of beauty—

"I've been working with the techs a lot, to get her fit to fly again." Selene laid one hand against the hull. "And it helps, Afon. It does. To . . . see the _Edifice_ , to touch her . . ." He offered a small, small smile. "To make her well again? . . . I wanted you to see her, too. What she's become—not what you dream about. Here—come here—"

And again Helios found himself following Selene, following Selene because otherwise he was on his own and he knew what would happen then and it was more than he could stand. His Navigator led him up the _Edifice_ , handhold by handhold—and not into the Fighter's niche but back, back along the wing until they stared down at the Navigator's chair, the tangles of the harness, the console, all tucked into the protection of the _Edifice_ 's belly: now it seemed so harmless, sans the lights, sans the engines humming.

"You scream about my being dead," Selene almost whispered. "About the _Edifice_ being so full of—of my blood that you can't breathe."

A gentle hand gestured toward the ship.

"But that's not real, Afon. You see? It's okay. It's okay. It _will_ be okay. I wanted you to see her before we went to the training room tomorrow. I wanted you to see the _real_ , not the simulacra."

"Please." Helios swayed a moment, struck by vertigo, by fear, by some screaming, frightened creature in his head which begged for flight but couldn't, couldn't, couldn't, because the ship beneath his feet was wire, was a snare. Which was to say nothing of the whole damn _Kepler—_ "Please, let's just go."

A wordless, tight-lipped nod; the Navigator held him steady, helped him back across the hull and down the handholds and back into the lift—through the corridors—until they were in the safety of their bunk again. Only then could Helios choke out the wordless cry; could he slip to the floor and crouch there, curl there; frightened, yes, but more-so—even more-so—so fucking _ashamed._

* * *

The sedative, however reluctantly swallowed, hit the Fighter hard: he was asleep nearly as soon as he'd crawled into what had once been Selene's place by the wall. The _Kepler_ hummed around them; Selene listened to Helios' breathing in the darkness—deep, untroubled, for the moment. The Navigator's eyes wandered restively—the shadow of the bunk above—their Spartan room—the bedside stand of drawers. A hand reached out to brush the topmost one before the Navigator gently wrapped his arms around Helios' ribs, pressing his head just beneath the Fighter's chin.

 _What if it was a mistake to take him to the_ Edifice _?_

Absently he began to brush Helios' hair away from his face—those long, long bangs which had such an endearing tendency to get in his eyes.

_I don't know . . . seeing her as she was, as she is now . . . it was therapeutic, in its way; helping fix her was something I could control in the face of all of the unknowns. I've seen the way he looks at me, the way he wonders . . . I think he wonders . . . how I'm holding up so well. I'm not?_

No—not really—although his brain gave him no dreams as violent as the Fighter's, but a Fighter's life _was_ violence. No, Selene's nightmares were different . . . he almost laughed in retrospect, thinking of what his nightmares _used_ to be. His Afon with another! Ha! Now they were jagged messes—blue sky, blue ocean—Whaea's hand in his—the green, green hills and the grass and the sandy shore and _blood_ —a gleam of wire—tawny fur red-stained—a wide, wide, white-rimmed, pitch-black eye—pink nose a-quiver and a heart beating itself out in his hands as he learned the first law of hard mercies.

Sometimes it was the rabbit in his hands.

But sometimes, in a way he couldn't explain, couldn't piece together, it was Afon.

Perhaps Afon was both.

He couldn't close his eyes for fear but stared a moment, seeing nothing, breathing, forcing his mind to wander elsewhere. What loomed? Worse in some ways than the Colterons—

_Tomorrow, what am I except—?_

Selene fought for a word, shivering, the artificial atmosphere a sharp tang against his skin. Simulations essentially run only so Helios could grow hardened to the possibility of his Navigator's death—no more—

 _How can I_ pretend _?_

He trembled, trembled, burrowing himself against the Fighter's body, seeking solace in the warmth, shivering, wide-eyed for the longest time, wondering if they to the Alliance were, in some ways, as rabbits were to men—the innocents who paid the price for those who didn't _think_ —which was to say nothing of the thousand enemies besides.

* * *

They were up before the day-shift lights: the same alarm, a mockery of birdsong, as had stirred them the morning of the battle woke them now. Well enough it might have been the _Edifice_ 's sirens screaming for how violently Selene came to—a desperate catching of fists, of feet, of limbs which had such hidden strength before his Fighter caught him, held him, soothed the trembling with steady, steady hands, ignoring the subconsciously-dealt blows which would likely bruise. If Selene asked, it was easy enough to pass off as trophies collected in PT . . .

But for all that, he didn't scream, not as Helios so often did: no, he merely pulled his fingertips through his Afon's hair, gently, over and over, stroking his face, pressing their noses together in some old, old ritual until he remembered where he was and what was real.

* * *

It was a dance, those hours in the darkness save the runner-lights: a subtle, shifting, give-and-take as nuanced as any of their lovemaking: a pause, a shuddered breath, a brushing of the lips, the catching of a shaking hand. One set of fingers, lithe, to fix the other's flightsuit's latches: a pair of hands to pull on gloves when the strength in those fingers suddenly failed.

Not a word passed between them; it was solemn as a ceremony: a sacrifice: a funeral: a Russian Orthodox Mass from the Fighter's youth: the Navigator's first look at the ocean, his first step on sacred ground.

If Helios had had any dreams, if he'd woken, he did not remember it.

Selene remembered every one, and the night had been unbearable.

* * *

The eternal brightness of the training room bit at their eyes and gave them the unflinching forms of Praxis and Ethos, Encke and—

 _No Keeler?_ Selene shook his head.

"Ho, Encke, Praxis." Helios reached out a hand while Selene mustered a wan smile for his fellow Navigator.

"Ethos," he added gently.

Encke shrugged the stiffness from his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, appraised them all with a stoic eye. "Keeler won't be joining us. Therefore, _Edifice, Tiberius,_ these simulations will be just between you two—which, if I'm honest, is more what Hayden wants. My system's still linked up with yours, so I can hear you, can see what you're up to . . . I've granted myself auxiliary navigational control, so I'll just sit back and watch."

Four nods, no more, no time for more because to pause would have been to let fear wrest its way into their minds. It was then that Selene realized their paragon was Ethos: stocky, stalwart, genius Ethos: Ethos alone who thus far had shown the greatest strength (which was not to say no fear)—who even in the battle had seen more clearly than the rest of them what exactly was at stake. Ethos, who'd tried—

"Selene—" Helios, tight-lipped.

The Navigator shook his head, following the shadow of his Fighter towards the capsule, hating that he couldn't be the steadfast one, not now.

* * *

Encke crawled up into the pseudo-ship, watching them, the four of them: Praxis and Ethos shook hands, climbed in without a moment's hesitation. Their scores had been solid, even since the skirmish: Praxis, if also prone to post-traumatic stress, was at least well-equipped these days to handle it.

Helios and Selene lingered just a moment too long; he could see the whites of their knuckles in the violently-bright lights: he could see the sweat beading at Helios' temple and how Selene's lips were pursed, eyebrows sharply knit.

"Let's go!"

And the thunder of his voice sent them scattering into the capsule's shell, as if to seek safety from a storm without knowing what beast might have laid itself to sleep in the depths of their chosen cave.

* * *

The first run was difficult.

Selene skivvied them through swarms—of ships, of chunks of exploded scrap, of asteroids; the nearest binary stars were bright in Helios' eyes, even at this distance, even through the simulated leaded shield. Below them lay the supposed homeworld of the Colterons; from its surface, from its moons, came squadrons, ten-sets and ten-sets of needle-nosed ships which could dive and attack and dance away as quickly as any blood-sucking insect of Earth.

Helios' breathing was harsh across the headsets; the Navigator's hands were steady at the console and he hoped, he hoped, that the Fighter's were wrapped around the weapons-throttle, at the ready—

_And how am I supposed to know—?_

* * *

" _Edifice_! _Edifice_ —"

Ethos? Helios shook himself, blinked rapidly; he'd forgotten they were there.

"—we couldn't stop them—"

_What—_

Until he saw the ship big enough to blot out those hellish suns—a devil's eyes—bearing down on them.

* * *

_It's not real. Not real. Not real. It can't kill us, can't destroy us, can't—_

* * *

"Selene, get us—"

But the capsule shuddered in such a subtle way that it was almost laughable; the _Edifice_ had bucked, had kicked, had _fought_ beneath his hands. Selene's eyes scanned the console once before it froze on him, before the lights snuffed off and thrust him into darkness.

—and suddenly—he didn't know—it _hurt_ —he clenched his teeth, fighting in the darkness for a light, hearing his Afon over the headsets, breathless still but breathing—throwing out Russian curses in a steady string but still—alive—and—

* * *

_E kore au e ngaro. I will not be lost. Afon is fine. It is not real, not real, not real._

* * *

Helios threw a final shot at the enemy vessel, hands skimming from the throttle to the console's keys, snared red in warning-lights; the ship, spark-spitting, was still closing in—he could see the ghost of the _Tiberius_ circling, still firing—a pithy distraction but somehow causing damage—

And then they were spinning, upwards when there was no up, twisting, twisting and suddenly jarred loose from the maw—into an open sky where, if the _Kepler_ lay in wait, they could come screaming home—

* * *

The capsule screen flashed dark as the simulation ended, the Navigator's niche flickering alight again with a glow far brighter than the _Edifice_. Over the headset, still, his Afon's labored breathing—the voices of Praxis and Ethos spinning nothings—syllables and decibels, sounds sans words (or so it seemed)—and then the thunder, distant: Encke:

"Good. That's good. You all okay? Alright. Let's try a different run."

* * *

Helios wasn't sure what had changed since their first time in the simulations following the battle . . . he was still terrified . . . he still panicked for a moment when he realized that the capsule's auxiliary controls were in _his_ hands . . . and what that meant (but he couldn't think that way) . . . and yet now he drew a breath and didn't think and didn't fear, didn't feel much of anything at all because what was _needed_ was a steady hand and instinct.

Perhaps it _was_ knowing that the _Edifice_ was whole, was sound, was beautiful in a way he'd never recognized before.

And knowing that whatever happened _here_ , Selene was fine.

* * *

Selene lost count of how many times the console locked, how many nights in which he found himself immersed—how many half-choked, half-forgotten memories arose of the _Edifice_ almost failing. He still expected to look down and see the console's keys red and slick with his own blood, the structural integrity completely shot, the air drawn and thick and cold, too cold to breathe . . .

Encke's bayed commands ("Again!") were torturous, but heeded, but obeyed without a second thought, because this was his Afon's only chance—

How he could still navigate, he didn't know.

He did not speak, but neither did his Afon.

For so long in the capsule now, they hadn't needed words.

* * *

Encke watched the scores flick across his datapad, half-conscious of the hand he kept on the console, not really caring anyway. Selene and Helios were doing well, all things considered, all things amounting to these being something like practiced suicide missions for the Navigator. Well—

The scores were solid, back almost to what was normal, and no one had outright panicked—not like the first time.

He closed his eyes. An hour seemed enough.

"Okay—that's it. Come out. Let's talk."

* * *

"Thank God," Praxis muttered.

"Theotokos"—Ethos' echo, the holy epithet a little prayer.

Helios leaned back, loosening his harness, feeling conscious of his body once again, the adrenaline quickly wearing off, sickness and fatigue swift to take its place. "Selene?"

A sigh, a thread of laughter that was nothing but sorrow, resignation. "Afon. I'm here."

When they crawled up from the capsule it was to find that their legs didn't seem their own: that it took an extra moment's pause to find themselves on solid ground; that they reached for one another with weary arms and held each other up. Their first steps were a staggering mess that almost threw them to the floor. The training room lights were too damn bright, brighter than the capsule's, in turn brighter than the _Edifice_ ; Encke and Praxis were dark smears against their brains and Ethos almost disappeared.

* * *

"Come here. Sit down."

They sat, two against the wall, two fanned to either side until they formed something of a semi-circle around Encke; the head Fighter studied them a moment.

"Ethos, Praxis? How did it feel this time?"

Praxis tilted his head, the gesture emphasizing his effort not to look at Helios directly. "Felt like you had our backs."

Encke raised his eyebrows. "Even though it got Selene killed—theoretically—which then left Helios with no offensive choice. He had to take control of the _Edifice._ "

Ethos shrugged; he was pale, he _hated_ this. "Yes. And God forbid that ever happens. But—just knowing—just knowing that we might run into a situation where—like last time—where we _needed_ you both to risk that loss—not argue with us—"

"No one argued today," Encke rumbled. "That's progress, isn't it? Helios? You didn't hesitate this time."

The Fighter shrugged, realized it wasn't good enough: a shrug and nothing more would find its way back to the CO. "I . . . Yes. It is . . ."

But he couldn't look at Selene, who feared that silence, too, who wondered what the head Fighter thought of him—which was to say nothing of Keeler—which was to say nothing of the CO.

"Good, then. Well." Encke stood, holding out his hand to each of them in turn as they followed suit. "Let's call it a day. Meet me here tomorrow. Consider than an order straight from Hayden, understood?"

Praxis stared. "You're kidding. Encke—"

"The more practice you get in, the better, same as any other drill." Encke squared his shoulders; not quite as tall as Praxis, he was the more powerful, commanding a presence far greater. "Whatever shit happened out there _cannot_ happen again, and it could happen to anyone—you get that? Hell, Praxis, _you_ should understand that much."

The Fighter winced, said nothing. It was true. Sometimes, even now, he slipped in training, did not call his Ethos "Ethos"—and invariably afterwards—

_Goddamn it, Encke._

". . . Hayden wants to make sure that it's thoroughly trained out of you."

"So we're dogs?" Ethos couldn't help but blurt.

The audacity, or nerve-shot insubordination, earned him a dry chuckle and a sidelong glance. "Eh. Not quite."

A moment's pause.

"But I bet you can see why it's important."

Selene raised his head. "It's been three weeks and we're still at the border . . . There was the trap laid for the—for the three of us—and then the Colterons crossed into Alliance space. Nothing's happened since, never mind that we destroyed them . . . never mind that those—that two of the three rogue ships are still . . ."

 _Out there. Out there, where they can regroup, repair, come back; can kill—like the_ Swift _and like the transport and who else could die like Sigyn and Bjorn and—_

_No—_

_(E kore au e ngaro . . .)_

"Do we have any idea why?" he managed finally, surprised himself that his voice was steady, that no one seemed able to pluck the fear from his mind, to play with it.

"Or what's to come." Ethos, softly.

"It's too damn quiet." Encke shook his head. "That's all I can say. I don't know any more than you do. If Hayden does, he doesn't tell me, but I think the fact that he's pushing these drills, just to have our top Starfighters back as cohesive teams . . . I think that says enough. Don't you?"

* * *

They didn't move when Encke left, when the training room was empty, when the capsules took on unsightly guises in the stillness, now that their task was done: all the more savagely were they mockeries of the ships whose shells would save their lives or else whose splintered hulls would snuff them out.

Praxis absently stroked his Navigator's hand.

"Thank you," he offered finally. "Thank you for . . . Helios, for what you've done today. I know—it's not perfect—it's not easy—it's not clean. It's all a mess, the whole of it. But today you—I felt like you were some of yourself. That I could trust you again. If the 'Terons do—"

"Praxis." Selene shook his head, tossed the Fighter a warning glance. "E hoa, don't."

Helios lifted his head, shifting slightly, hating the distance between himself and Selene but loathe to close it yet. Not in front of them, not when—he didn't know—not when the whole of it was just too raw—for what Selene had done, been ordered to—

"Just leave it. Just let it be enough," he muttered roughly. "Please."

Ethos was the first to stand, to look down at them beneath the shadows cast from his flyaway hair by lights too Goddamned bright: Ethos who helped pull Praxis to his feet so that he, too, could see that it was something by turns fragile, sacred . . . somewhere they themselves had been before.

* * *

"They're gone, Afon."

Helios blinked, saw the empty room for what it was, suppressed a shiver though appearances didn't seem to matter so much now that they were gone—Encke, Praxis, judges, both—

He ran a shaking hand through sweat-streaked hair. "Thank God that's done."

"Are you okay?" Selene's voice was dry and distant, cracked, carefully aloof in such a way that struck the Fighter's nerves and felt like a knife drawn along some half-healed scar. But not for anger—

"Come here."

"Afon—"

"Shut up. Come _here_."

Without waiting for an answer he wrapped his arms around the Navigator's narrow shoulders, pulling the latter's head against his chest until he knew Selene could hear the beating of his heart, the working bellows of his lungs, the steady and unconscious rhythms that were the proof of life, giving birth in turn to consciousness . . .

"I'm here. You see?"

But it wasn't just about that—no—it was to feel Selene's form tangled in his own, just to be near to him, to prove yet to himself that the capsules were just shells, just fabrications, just—just nightmares—all—

Shivers wracked them both.

"We need another run," Selene whispered. His hand was a vice against his Fighter's arm, fingers splayed and terse, unable to wrap about its circumference but digging in deep to make up the difference. "Just us, Afon. Just us, do you understand?"

Every bone in Helios' body ached, his head was hollow, his hands wanted nothing at all to do with the weapons-throttle or the auxiliary console—the thought of another starfield and silent explosions smeared across the capsule's screens made his eyes turn inward and an empty gut cast bile up into his throat.

 _But he did this for me._ He began to run his fingertips through his Navigator's hair, still able to catch the heat and sweat off his skin. _So I . . . so we can move forward. What kind of Fighter—no—fuck that—what kind of . . . person . . . (lover? Can I say that? Lover . . . ) would I be if I—_

* * *

The encrypted simulation.

Selene was surprised how quickly his hands called up the code, how easy it was to find. Why had no one destroyed it?—Perhaps because Command knew there was a need for moments such as this.

Helios studied the screen, realizing now that he should have known what Selene would put them through. _He doesn't trust me—or himself . . . does he? (Do I?)_

His Navigator sent them skipping through the simulated sky, past the wreckage of the _Swift_ , in search of the elusive three . . . the Fighter, this time, was determined to settle not for one, as they had before, but to light up the sky with the lot of them. His Navigator needed him for that—and Helios was sure that only the two of them, in tandem, could accomplish such a thing—no Fighter besides himself, coupled with his Navigator's skill, could even hope—so he whispered, self-ingratiating lie though it might prove to be—

And it didn't matter, not this time, not when no one else would know, that the lines between reality and simulacra once again were blurred—just _so,_ just so slightly—but for both of them. And when the final ship in silence burned, they merely sat there for a moment, gasping, sweating, lingering somewhere just at the border of consciousness, wondering if they'd ever felt so frightened or alive.

* * *

Breakfast was a hasty thing, then off to the bridge, to PT, to a day that slid through their fingertips. They caught each other's gazes over lunch but didn't mingle—Praxis gave Helios a glance, Keeler prattled on about the work they had to do—and Selene found himself so late to supper in the evening that the mess hall was nearly empty.

But his Afon was still waiting there with two trays of lukewarm food and half a table to themselves.

* * *

Helios raised his head, studying his Navigator, unsure (yet again) of what was running through that brilliant mind. Hayden had given him instructions to begin working loose the knots—the MO had him on video relay with an Alliance base psychologist every other day (why _every fucking other day_?) and there were the sedatives—God—he missed real sleep—but—

_Who looks out for you?_

_Who asked if you . . . this morning . . . playing dead when you'd really fucking die for me—Selene—_

_(I hate—no—I just—I can't—it's too much, it's been too much—it's too late for that—fuck regulations—)_

_(I feel hollow saying it. When we . . . you're always so gentle . . . Give me that, your name, a different kind of gentleness, something_ real _to say to you, something just as—just as—something they can't take away from us—)_

_(Please.)_

_. . . Who looks out for you?_

_Fuck._

_It's—_

_Me—_

* * *

Selene glanced up, surprised to see his Fighter spooning some meaty stew onto a slice of bread and holding it out, balanced in an open hand, even though the juice began to run between his fingers.

"Yours looks like shit. What is it?"

"Not what they say it is."

"Tch. Take this."

"If someone sees—"

"Fuck that."

Helios stood up, dropped into the seat beside his Navigator, smiled in such a gentle, haunted way that Selene knew there was no arguing.

—which didn't diminish his shock to find the chunk of bread and stew pressed against his lips because Afon wouldn't take silence as an answer, either, because he was impatient, because it wasn't really about the Navigator's rations or his own. When the thing was gone, subconsciously, he found himself kissing Afon's palm, following the rivers of strew trickled down between his splayed fingers and settled on his knuckle-bones.

The Fighter chucked, pulled away—just slightly—to lick the last of salty remnants from his hand, swapping his stew for the Navigator's plate of so-called fish: salmon, he supposed, or something equally good for the brain. The grimace he pulled on tasting it didn't go unnoticed, and Selene couldn't help but laugh.

* * *

"Sometimes I think you think too much."

The corridors seemed a labyrinth; they took their time, a few inches kept between them, taking care to step in one another's shadows.

"I do, Afon." Selene ran a hand through his hair. "But I hide it, eh?"

Helios ducked his head, staring at his feet, shouldering into the smaller man by accident, only to find the slighter frame resilient: the Navigator neither staggered nor lost stride. "Everyone's been . . . worried about me . . . but you . . .

"If—if you still want to talk to Praxis—uhm—"

"Hm? Oh, Afon, no. We're friends, that's all we ever have been. He's someone I can talk to, sure, but . . . I don't know. It's hard this time, with what's happened. I think we need our distance—I think he needs to find some peace, just like we do. It's not right to go to him."

"So . . . who's got your back?" Helios stopped, the Navigator taking a moment to turn. The Fighter didn't know why the hallway suddenly began to shift and blur, why his eyes were stinging. It was _truth_ , that's all . . . "Because lately I don't feel like I've . . . at all . . . Selene—"

"Afon, my river, e ipo." The words were soft, slid easily from lips, as Selene pulled him close, guiding him back down the hall. But part of Helios rebelled—because this was what his Navigator always did—was so gentle and consistent—giving and asking nothing in return—picking up the pieces, as if he'd been right from the beginning to treat him like glass—but—that's not how it was supposed to be—fuck being sustainable (which it likely wasn't)—worse, perhaps, than that—it wasn't _right_ —

"Selene." Helios stopped, holding him, just holding him, not sure what he was doing but loathe to do nothing at all. "Selene, will you come with me?"

* * *

_The observation deck?_

Selene strode to the edge of the catwalk, staring out at the stars, the great, depthless, endless sky sans a horizon. He remembered times like that—just a few—when the ocean and Earth's sky had rolled and roiled into one. He remembered the proverb he'd half-quoted to himself, realizing only now, and guiltily, that he'd left out the end, the true, true meaning that still, somehow, gave him hope . . .

Helios pressed a datapad into his hands. Selene hadn't even noticed he was carrying it—his Fighter wasn't much of one for tech—

He blinked, scarcely dared to breathe.

_Whaea?_

Both of his mothers, actually—Mom to the left, with red hair and a wicked grin; Whaea to the right—hair silvered long before its time—half-turned so that her gaze was obviously elsewhere—the sandy shore and, curving around them, the ocean's swell, when the sky was piercingly bright but the sun on the waves was brighter still, and the _waters_ —oh—

"When did you last talk to them?" Afon whispered gently, stepping close enough until his presence, his mere nearness, was far more powerful a thing than a gesture, than a touch.

A shake of the Navigator's head. "Years ago. After the _Swift_ , when I was recruited, they . . . the Alliance didn't let us keep in touch . . . I don't know why. Anyway. Whaea—my mother—uhm—"

"I understand."

Selene smiled, reaching to brush at a pixelated cheek with the tip of his finger. "She cried on Mars for the ocean, you know. 'We're seeds scattered, but we're never lost,' she'd say . . . but . . . I know she wanted to go back . . . When—when was this taken?"

"I don't know."

". . . How did you get this, Afon?"

A shrug, a noncommittal grunt. "Praxis talked to me—this was kind of his idea, really—pulled a favor from somewhere. The other Fighters, you know . . . there are connections. I know you Navigators are the tech-savvy bunch but we deserve our credit—just—not officially—you understand?"

"Hm."

"I guess it wasn't all too hard to find, so maybe . . . I don't know. Anyway, but here." Helios reached out, tapped the screen again: the new images were stock, pulled from Alliance files.

And Selene began to laugh.

Strange oceans and coastlines, most of them, from others' homelands but not a one his own—and yet the hopeful, naïve gleam in his Fighter's eyes was too much—and after everything—such unfiltered _sweetness_ —

"Here, Afon. Come here."

They sat down, knees touching, Helios' arm instinctively around his Navigator's shoulders while the latter hastily pulled up the Alliance's network, the spray of coded data—

Until an array of new pictures began to dance before his eyes: not just any stretch of ocean, any coast—that much he could see—but a land more beautiful than he could have imagined (which made his childish attempts and cobbling together a slideshow for Selene seem ridiculous, in retrospect)—with sandy shores and green, green hills and mountains, snow-capped, and images where the sea and sky were indistinguishable from one another—

"Where you're from?" he asked.

"Yes and no." Selene keyed back to the picture of his mothers. "I wasn't born on Earth. Mom was Whaea's surrogate—she couldn't have me on her own. I was born early, though, en route to Mars. My mothers always said that's why, even as a youngster, I wanted to become a Navigator—

"Never knew my father, though—his name, where he was from, what sort of person he was. Hm. But Māori—Whaea is, I am—we're from this place. Our ancestors came a long time ago, in canoes."

"What—"

"Most people call it New Zealand."

Helios waved a hand, tired of names, of names that weren't _real_ names. "Fuck what other people call it."

"Afon . . ."

"No—I mean—that's not what it's really called, is it? What do _you_ call it?"

"Ah." A smile, faint, a distant gaze: Selene wasn't looking at the stars or sky, not anymore. "To Māori, it's Aotearoa."

"And so—" Helios slid the datapad from Selene's unprotesting hands, set it down, folded those long, gentle fingers in his own. Such tenderness in the Navigator, mostly, but would that the Fighter could know that in Selene's veins ran the blood of warriors, too—or that he knew how to wield a taiaha—

"Your task-name isn't your name, either."

"God. Of course it's not."

"I know."

Helios pressed his cheek against Selene's, closing his eyes, wanting so desperately to ask but knowing, too, that in so doing he was touching something sacred—he carried his own name with a fondness for the Welsh tongue and his identity as fixed solidly in the reinvented Russian culture of the colonies—but this—there was something different, hallowed, in this asking and he wasn't yet sure if he had the right, if he would _ever_ have the right—except it was a thing far beyond who had any right, or how much trust he earned: it was a gift—

"Please."

The only thing he could think of.

_Please._

* * *

His Navigator fixed him with a stare that left his hackles raised: it was not a look of anger, or offense—not even intimidation, as Helios knew it in the Fighters' sense—

"Not here." Selene stood, helped him to his feet. "Come on."

* * *

The bunk invited them, enveloped them, just as the _Kepler_ sank to night, the lights snuffed out and the darkness thrust upon them, until only the runner-lights were their guides, gleaming across strands of hair and the smooth planes of flesh—cheeks, scarred chests, the palms of hands, outstretched, upheld—their eyes monochromatic and colorless, but bright.

They held each other for its own sake, for the closeness, familiarity, for warmth and the reassurance of the other's life. That's how it always would be, from now on, yet another ritualized beginning to their acts of love. Swaying where they stood, Selene ran his fingertips across his Fighter's skin, knowing by memory the rough places and lingering there, letting his Afon do the same—although he'd yet to memorize his Navigator's scars and the result was a random wandering of hands that left the latter breathless.

The recent memories of nights before still crept up on them—Helios more-so, since the transgressions and requests and _need_ had been mostly his own—so he assumed, for Selene's caretaking, his tenderness—

The MO's sedatives lay on the desk, forgotten, and the Fighter didn't care. He'd take them afterwards, if the night proved sharp, but didn't fucking matter now. Not now, when he could wrap himself in his Navigator's arms, could kiss him, could feel in those cool lips something of an echo of a world he never knew.

"Please, cariad . . ."

"My river. Hm."

It wasn't solely for his Navigator's body that he asked, well enough they knew.

A soft and labored breath brushed against his ear; Afon arched his back, pulling the smaller man to him—to him and into him—before the latter moaned and shuddered, determined to draw this out, an exquisite act, a sacred thing after so much had gone wrong.

"Afon, e ipo . . ." A kiss, deep, lingering, while Afon's fingers began to card through ombre hair. "My name is Rawiri."

 _Rawiri._ The syllables, a song, so different from Russian and from Welsh, caught against his lips, his tongue; even in the cadence of the rocking of their bodies, gentle, gentle, it took him a few tries to get the accents right. But eventually he did.

His cry was wordless at the end, though his name—as always now—was a whispered call, just before his Navigator quivered, within him and around him: one hand held his, vice-like, and there was the _heat_ —

There, there, as the beloved one came back to himself, Afon pressed his lips against the former's ear, feeling him trail the most delicate string of kisses at his jaw. "Rawiri," he whispered—again, again, in tandem with his Navigator's languid, savoring movements—subtle and finessed—

"Hm. Afon."

"I've waited so long to say—"

"—and I've wanted to hear it—from you—since I met you—Afon, my river, e ipo—"

"Cariad—"

A slow, low chuckle that gathered in the Fighter's chest, that was contagious.

"—Rawiri . . ."

**Author's Note:**

> A name?!
> 
> . . . a name.
> 
> I'd originally thought of trying to pull some, I don't know, "hip author" thing and never have Selene reveal his name. But I feel like the series might be wrapping up (?—famous last words!) and it seemed long past due. 
> 
> (Actually, writing "Someone Shining" kind of drove this nail home: names are precious and in many cultures pretty sacred things. When, in "Someone Shining," Selene mentally asks his Whaea, his Māori mother, what she'd think of him [with a task-name standing for his real name and whatnot], I could just picture him asking himself the same question now, and how she'd perhaps disapprove of the fact that he knows Helios'/Afon's name but hasn't shared his own.)
> 
> I had some fun with this, actually . . .
> 
> Rawiri is the Māori form of David—and in Hebrew, of course, David means Beloved. :)


End file.
